


Wine Enters, Secrets Exit (A Love Story in Four Seasons)

by TheMostePotente



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:33:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMostePotente/pseuds/TheMostePotente
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lucius Malfoy becomes gravely ill, Draco inherits the familial vineyard.  Overwhelmed by its operation and upkeep, Draco solicits a business partner.  The perfect man for the job might just be Harry Potter.  When wine enters, secrets exit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wine Enters, Secrets Exit (A Love Story in Four Seasons)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> **Warnings:** Second-person POV, minor character death, minor off-screen infidelity: Snape/Narcissa  
>  **Content/Enticements:** Frotting, snarkery and snipery, meddling friends, flangst, seasonal frolics, riotous gingerbread men  
>  **Author's Notes:** Kate, I was super stoked to receive your sign-up as an assignment. Our tastes run very similar. I tried to meet as many of your wishes as possible, absolutely delighting in your call for winter scenery. Even though I didn’t use it directly, I was very inspired by Fromm’s quote. I hope this pleases. Happy Holidays to you  <3  
> Many thanks to both R and S for their time and patience, and to J for her everlasting inspiration.

**i. spring**

 

A raindrop falls.

 

You extend your arm and collect more drops in your hand. The drops gravitate to the centre of your palm, and you study them as you retract your arm. It’s going to rain stair rods, you think, weather-wizard that you aren’t. But it’s a strong feeling, and you’ve come to trust your instinct. You could wait inside, but there’s a smell to the air that actually trumps a fresh pint and greasy chips. You can hear several sets of excited voices through the panes as you huddle closer under the eaves of The Drunken Screwt. He’s late, and you’re not surprised. Still, that instinct keeps you anchored, and you stay the dampness despite the hour closing. He gave you his word, didn’t he?

Just as you clear the fog from your lenses, he appears before you in greens and greys. It’s obvious he still clings to the heaviness of winter, but he doesn’t appear out of season to you. He simply _is_ no matter what the season, and you greet him with all the lightness of a man who embraces the warmer months. 

If this were any other person, you might mention their tardiness, but to do so here would only make him aware of your irritation. Satisfaction, you insist, is not something you give easily or even lightly. He’ll come to know this soon enough.

“Malfoy,” you say, offering your hand.

“Potter,” he says, accepting it. “It’s been a while.”

Your hands fall, and he offers you what might pass for a genuine smile. You notice a slight dimple and a cleft in his chin you hadn’t noticed before. This appeases you, and you smile back, suddenly glad for this clandestine opportunity.

“I don’t fancy a second bath, Potter, shall we move inside?” he says. “Right,” you say, and he follows you through the door. You choose a table far enough out of the way and cast a privacy spell. The years have done nothing to quiet the hype still surrounding you, and you want nothing more than to keep your business, whatever that may be, _your_ business.

Malfoy looks a little put out by this. Like he wanted the masses to flock in awe of such a meeting. But even you know that eavesdropping is considered gauche.

“Apologies for my lateness. I had to attend to my father,” he says. He looks at you then, hard and discerning, for any recognition of your hatred of Lucius on your face or in your posture. Malfoy will find none. 

“It’s no bother, really,” you say, and you wave down a barmaid. You order two pints, but he interrupts you and changes his order to wine. Only Malfoy would order wine in a pub and insist you’re the one out of step. But you shrug it off and get right to business. You’ve made prior commitments for the evening, and you hardly think your take-away man deserves your abandonment. “So, what’s this all about?”

Malfoy furnishes a map of France and unfolds it, laying it flat against the tabletop. He points to a southern region, and you squint to read it upside down. 

“My father has grown quite ill over the past year, Potter. And while he doesn’t deserve your sympathy, I’m hoping you might at least acknowledge a grudging respect for his last endeavour.”

You straighten in your chair and think back to the _Prophet_ four years ago. Malfoy senior had used what remained of the family fortune to buy a vineyard in France. It had been successful for a time, but then all went quiet about a year ago, and the thought hadn’t troubled you since. 

Malfoy actually looks pleading, and you grant his father your grudging respect with a curt nod. 

“All right then, you have it. But what’s this got to do with me?” you ask.

Your drinks arrive, and this gives you time to puzzle out what Malfoy wants. Or for Malfoy to collect his courage. There’s a favour just sitting on his silver tongue, and it’s so leaden that Malfoy’s mouth droops. However, when the barmaid departs, he pounces on your obvious look of befuddlement.

“I’m taking over his business, and I want you for my partner,” he demands.

You laugh, and you don’t mean to, or maybe you do. But the notion of you two partnering for anything is just, is just… _ludicrous_. He can’t possibly be serious.

His face crumples, and you think this might actually be his best ruse, or that he really _is_ serious. And before you even have time to weigh both options, the words fall out of your mouth unimpeded. “Sure. Fine. What’s one more trip down the rabbit hole.”

More like a tumble. Head first. But you need to see where this is leading, after all. 

Perhaps, too much. 

Your cheeks heat, and you dive face first into your pint. Malfoy calmly sips his wine and blanches. It must be off by about five degrees to yield such disdain. He’s perfect for this business, you muse, while he pardons himself for a mirror call. You have no idea why he would ask you to partner, though. You have nothing to bring to this but your name.

_Your name._

He finishes his call, and you begin your rather rough protestations. He derails your train of thought, however, by standing. “Afraid I need to cut this much shorter than anticipated, Potter. Meet me here tomorrow at ten,” he says, pointing to Languedoc-Roussillon. “At these coordinates. We’ll discuss the finer points.”

“Right,” you say, and he turns to leave, worry cleaved into his forehead.

“I’m sorry about your father,” you say, but Malfoy is gone and doesn’t hear you. 

You ignore the grumble in your stomach and think about what it must be like to lose a parent. One you’ve actually _known_. And for the first time, you have no idea which situation is worse. Only that it’s rough at any age. 

This gives you pause to really think on Malfoy’s offer and to assess your own career woes. But to give this due consideration, two things need to happen first: one, your arse needs to kiss the couch, and two, you need to wrap your mouth around something hot.

Even if it is only curry.

*

You’re still chewing on a toast triangle when you arrive at your destination. Breakfast on the run is something you’ve grown accustomed to as an Auror. But you haven’t been an Auror in six months. For that matter, you haven’t fallen out of any of your old routines. You don’t know if and when you ever will. You’re not sure you even want to.

Malfoy is not there. In fact, something else seems to be missing. 

“Fidelius Charm,” you mumble before you swallow, brushing crumbs from the front of your shirt. 

“You’d be right,” a voice signals from behind you.

You startle at the surprise. “Fuck, Malfoy, little warning next time!”

Malfoy smiles, brandishing a green apple. He tosses this your way, and you catch it one-handed. “I wasn’t particularly quiet when I arrived. Truly, your Auror senses are dulling, Potter. Now, be a dear and take a bite of that apple.”

You stare at it a moment, then at Malfoy. You’d have preferred a blood orange.

“Tout bloody suite, Potter, we haven’t got all day,” he says with mild irritation in his voice. 

You should be cross at his tone, but kindness is a weapon few remember to yield in retort. It’s responsible for more deaths than dragon pox.

A perfectly played smile and a bite later, you feel the tingle of magic within you; a trifecta of truth and trust and knowledge bubbling to the surface. Malfoy grasps your arm and pulls you back, lest you be smacked face first with a wrought iron gate. The vineyard slams into view and sprawls before you as far as the eye can see. The apple rolls from your fingers, and Malfoy catches it expertly. He grins around a bite, and you grant him a withering look. You might have finished that.

“You are now a Secret Keeper, Potter. One out of four. Try not to get too pissed around Goblin vintners. I value all of my family’s candy making secrets, you know.” 

Malfoy can, of course, shove his candy making secrets up his arse. You don’t divulge information you’ve been entrusted with. In fact, you’ve kept your sexuality neatly hidden ever since Ron told you that you fancied dangly bits in place of wobbly bits, ridiculous euphemisms aside.

“Hang on,” you say before Malfoy can open the gate. Your fingers keep him at bay. “I just need to know one thing. Why me?”

“Why not you?” he says. 

Your fingers press into his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat. There’s more to this than newfound alliances. 

“Fine,” he concedes with a huff. “Pansy would only indulge, Gregory isn’t up to the task, and I frankly don’t trust Blaise. Happy?”

“I was the fourth person you considered?” you ask. Your hold on him slackens.

Malfoy peels your fingers from him one at a time. “How it galls you to be less than first at something.”

“That’s bullshit,” you say, but no example is forthcoming. 

Malfoy sneers a bit. “Is it? Look, Potter, I know how you like to be first at everything. And if not first, then certainly best. I’d been following your career in the papers since day one. That was, until you withdrew.”

You can’t help but intercede. “That’s not the least bit creepy-stalkery.” 

“Rich,” he manoeuvres around a chuckle. “Coming from the man that followed me around most of sixth year.” 

“Tou-fucking-ché.” Except that you know you were rightly justified. Malfoy had been up to everything. “Why were you following my career? Why did you even care?”

“Mostly because I wanted to know when you’d grow bored. It’s not the same, is it? The thrill, I mean. Ridding the world of villainy and flushing out the last of the Death Eaters. Not when you’ve taken down Voldemort. Admit it, Potter. So much that you’ve become soggy about the middle.”

You don’t know what stings more. The fact that he’s right about the boredom, or the fact that excessive take-away has cost you more than just half a stone. “Fuck. You. Malfoy.” 

You turn away to Apparate, and he lays a hand on your shoulder. The curl of his fingers is more of an impediment than any spell.

“Please, Potter. Please don’t go.”

There’s something in that ‘please’ that rings all too familiar. And suddenly you’re back at the tower and Dumbledore is pleading with Snape for death. And though it seemed quite sinister at the time, there was so much more to that partnership that you weren’t privy to. You don’t need a dead man’s memories to see this.

“All right,” you say, coming at him with a deadly grin and a loaded handshake. “Let’s do this. I’m not surrendering my name or my finances, though. You can’t have either.”

Malfoy takes your hand for the second time in two days. “I wouldn’t want either.”

His lip curls, and you want to pulverise his porcelain face into fine dust.

You stroll through the gates together.

What you find is something once majestic is now in a state of utter disrepair. The climatisation spells are faltering. Fruits have withered and died on the vines. And there are clay carcasses littering the fields. All this, and only with quick glances.

Malfoy doesn’t seem fazed, and you rather despise him for this. You heave a sigh of exasperation and then produce your wand. He follows suit and brushes past you.

‘Fuck of a spring’ doesn’t even begin to cover the situation.

 

**ii. summer**

 

A star falls.

 

You catch its streak out of your peripheral vision, and you plot its trajectory with your weary eyes. It’s the end of another long day, and all you want to do is finish this shower you’re in the middle of, inhale a sandwich or three, and fall into bed.

Belatedly, you make these your wishes. 

The water sluices from your tired body, and you grip the stone wall tighter to keep yourself upright. You haven’t known this mix of pain and satisfaction in a long time, and it’s cathartic. You and Malfoy have done good work. You feel prideful, and with this comes a twinge of guilt. You’re just doing your job, after all.

Just about the time your hot water spell has run its course, you find Malfoy standing in the archway of your shower. You’re honestly too exhausted for modesty, but you permit a baleful glare. Malfoy turns the taps for you, all serious business now, and you motion for a towel and your glasses. You’ve really come to appreciate your little outdoor nook for its privacy, except that it’s really not so private any longer. Idly, you contemplate making your shower Unplottable.

“We need to talk,” Malfoy says. “About this.”

Malfoy holds up a shapeless mass of clay. You know where this is leading.

“Tomorrow,” you say. Your tone brooks no argument. You doubt your ability to string more than five words together, let alone in the correct order.

“No,” he argues. “Tonight. Find some clothes and meet me in the field. We’ll eat out under the stars. Looks like it’s going to remain clear, and I want to take full advantage.”

“Fine,” you groan, and you navigate the cobbles back to your room. This conversation is going to sap what remains of your strength. Tomorrow you’re sleeping in until forever.

You find Malfoy seated on a grassy knoll some ways away from the vineyard. He’s brought light victuals and pumpkin juice, and you’re grateful for the chance to eat first before he argues his merits. He’s even brought you a phial of low-dose Pepper-Up potion so you don’t fall face-first into a plate of ham and cheddar. He’s considerate when he wants to be, or when he’s led in that direction. And this, you muse, is how you will carry him through this debate. 

“No,” you say right from the beginning. “I won’t allow it.”

He lifts his chin in defiance. As if to demand, ‘this is how I’ll have my way.’ “We need viticulturists, Potter. _And skilled vignerons._ We can’t do this all on our own. It’s too much. We’ll burn out in less than six months. Maybe I didn’t think this through.”

You quaff the Pepper-Up and blanch at its strong taste. “Agreed on the first caveat,” you say. “And we’ll manage for the time being. But I’m not using your father’s homunculi as slave labour to defer costs.”

“Golems,” he counters. “And I defy you to come up with a better plan.”

You arch an eyebrow in annoyance. You’re not in the mood to argue semantics. You are, however, in the mood to school him in correctness. “Is this the image you want to project? How an employer treats his employees says a lot about his business practices.”

Malfoy’s mouth falls open a bit in disbelief. “They’re clay men. Ordered into servitude when a note is placed into their mouths. It’s not like we’re exploiting House-elves. Which, I might add, could’ve been an alternative if Granger hadn’t convinced them that wages and sick days were inalienable rights.”

“Listen,” you say around a mouthful of sandwich. “House-elf exploitation is a hot button topic for most, myself included. Dobby was just as much my friend as he was anything else. He gave his life to save mine, and I owe him a debt of gratitude I can never repay. House-elves are loyal and trustworthy to the core. Pay them well, and you won’t be sorry. Ten should do nicely.”

Malfoy mulls this over in his head, and you can tell he’s seriously considering your advice by the way his nose twitches rabbit-like. He sits up and pins his shoulders back with a sharp jerk. He’s in high alert status, trying to make business sense out of Potter savvy. He concedes with a sharp exhale of breath. “All right. My family’s reputation could do with a bit of finessing. I’m going to trust your judgment on this, Potter, and take the high road. You pulled me out of a fire on good faith. Way I figure, I’ve been let off easy.”

“Good man,” you say, cupping a hand over your mouth. It does little to stifle the powerful yawn that wracks your body. This doesn’t feel right, you think. To feel this wave of exhaustion fall over you like a dark cloud. The stars above begin to swim and your vision blurs.

“That wasn’t a Pepper-Up,” you manage, slurring your words.

Malfoy shakes his head, grinning. “No. No it was wasn’t. It was a Sleeping Draught. You haven’t slept hard in a week. Nighty night, Scarhead.” 

You look at Malfoy all slack-jawed and sleepy-eyed before you crumple face-first into the grass. It’s going to be at least twelve hours before you can jam your trainer up his arse in response. 

He could be an enormous git and leave you in that uncomfortable position, but he doesn’t. He rights your body and removes your glasses and watches over you like a sentinel before curling up next to you. 

You’re good and unconscious, and it’s probably for the best. You’re not ready for this, for what follows.

Because unlike you, Malfoy has slept _hard_ all week. 

*

You wake up the next morning with the briefest remembrance of stars and the aftertaste of peppermint on your breath. A victim of sleep hangover, you rub the vestiges of yesterday from your eyes with the heels of your hands and proceed to the kitchen. Malfoy is there, hidden behind a wall of newspaper and nursing a cup of tea. You slink down into a seat and groan at the prospect of bright sunshine. Malfoy’s effectively turned you into a vampire.

“Sleep soundly?” he asks you from behind the _Prophet_.

 _Tea_ , your brain cries, and you pour yourself a cup hoping for a late-morning miracle. “I overslept. This is your doing.”

The paper rattles with the turn of a page, and a hand darts out from behind to ensnare the last piece of toast. “I needed you fresh for today. We need to think of a market strategy. You’re something of a poor man’s genius I hear.” Malfoy folds a corner of his paper down to wink at you. 

That gesture is met with two fingers. “I have a few of my own ideas, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to consult with Hermione, too.”

Malfoy sighs. “If you must. Just keep her out of my hair. I can’t imagine she’s even all right with the two of us partnering. Given our explosive history.”

The noises your stomach make are so loud they might easily break the sound barrier. Out of panicky desperation and sheer laziness, you snitch the toast triangle from Malfoy’s hand and take a bite. He’s even done you the courtesy of layering it with the right amount of lime marmalade. “She’s fine with it. Just, you know, she’ll pull your foreskin over your head if you hurt me.”

There’s a scathing look tossed your way for the petty thievery. “I’ll be sure and keep my bits tucked when she’s around.” The paper falls with a neat rustle and Malfoy grants you his full attention. “So, let’s hear these ideas.” 

“So,” you begin. “I think we need to make an affordable but high quality potable. I think we need to target several audiences ranging from the amateur to the connoisseur with less emphasis on the pure-bloods. I think we need to sample elements from our own relationship and use sharp contrasts to explore taste and variety. What do you think so far?”

Malfoy nods, looking quite pleased. “I’m ecstatic actually. That you’ve broken free of monosyllabism with the word ‘potable.’ But do continue.”

You ignore the jibe knowing perfectly well you speak as you should, and not like some swot who swallowed a dictionary. But you’ll bullet-point this instance of dickery for later, possibly in the form of your other trainer up his arse. “And since winemaking is essentially a branch of science, I think we should enlist Snape’s aid.”

“No,” Malfoy says, firmly and without explanation. “Find someone else or don’t find anyone at all. Just don’t pursue this. Do I have your word?” He turns to his tea and curses its coldness.

You’re taken aback by the bluntness of his words, and you’d swear his icy demeanour was not only responsible for the chill to his tea but to the room, too. “I don’t understand,” you say.

“You’re not meant to,” he counters. Malfoy scurries to his feet to avoid any further intrusion into this apparently taboo subject. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some elves to find.”

Without another word, he levitates his cup and saucer to the sink and retreats from your presence. 

It’s a good thing, actually, his leaving abruptly. It’s already later than it needs to be, and you should meet with Hermione before she becomes too caffeinated. To boot, you’ll probably spend next to an entire day tracking down Snape. You’re not exactly known for listening. Ditto for giving your word.

*

Snape, of course, is holed up at the last place you look. He’s seated in a high-back chair in possibly the creepiest frame you’ve encountered, reading from a tome heavy enough to squash a kneazle. Eileen’s brother, Athelstan Prince, excuses himself to give you your privacy with his nephew.

You clear your throat with just about the politest _ahem_ you can muster to attract his attention.

He ignores you completely and instead turns a page. Snape never did respond rightly to kindness.

“You know, your likeness is uncanny. Except for how rosy your cheeks were painted,” you say, making note of the artist’s name. “Either Blaxton Beardsley was a bit heavy handed with his brush, or he had one hell of a sense of humour.”

“I suppose you think that’s funny, Potter,” Snape says from behind his book. His voice is about as pleasant as the sound of steel kissing flint.

You adjust the height of your frames with two strategically placed fingers. “Isn’t it?”

The book does not move a millimetre. “If I grant you five minutes in which I must dull my wits, would you promise never to visit me again?”

You lie and hope Snape is blind to your transparency. “Done.”

Snape closes the book with a soft whoosh. He’s about as passionate over the preservation of literature as Hermione is about the solidarity of House-elves. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Potter?”

“I’ll get right to the point,” you say. “Malfoy and I have taken over his father’s vineyard. I thought we might benefit from your, ah, areas of expertise.”

Snape arches a brow at this. “Meaning you wish me to craft you several new formulas for wines, because you’re as useless as teats on a flobberworm?”

You bite your tongue, because no good will come of what you mean to say next. “No need to be brutal about it, Snape, but yes. The formulas I mean.” 

His smile would send the siren of death into high retreat. “Isn’t there?”

Fuck this, you think. You’ve taken enough of his shit for one night. You’ll find someone else. Someone who isn’t a total prick. “It was a mistake to come here. Sorry I interrupted story time.” You turn to leave.

“Wait,” he hisses.

Oddly enough, you didn’t see that coming. You face him again. “Yes?”

“You’ve come in his stead, have you?”

“Yes and no. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Hmm,” Snape says, tapping his temple with an index finger. “Then you’ve no idea he’s sent me away. Cordoned me off from my portrait at the manor?”

“No,” you say, and this time you mean it. “I wonder why that is.”

Snape’s expression belies no sign of regret even though there must be some. “Not my story to tell. But… Should you have the banishment lifted, I will see what I can do.”

This is getting interesting, you think, and you ask out of sheer cheek. “Why is that so important?”

He dismisses your enquiry with the business end of his sneer, and you know that your five minutes were up ten minutes ago. “Fine,” you huff. “I’ll be in touch.”

Snape returns to his book, and you’re just as soon forgotten.

Not an overwhelming success but bully for you. It wasn’t a complete cock-up.

*

When you return to the vineyard, you find that Malfoy has left you a note with his whereabouts. He is at the small lake in Pradelles-Cabardès enjoying a swim when you arrive, fully clothed and hopelessly rumpled. When he spies you, he climbs out of the water and takes the towel you so obligingly hand him. His facial expression denotes smugness, like he’s solved the ancient riddle of the Sphinx. You’re fairly certain he knows where you’ve been, but you’re not divulging a thing voluntarily.

“You know, Potter,” he starts. “They say that only the honest of men have the ability to walk on water without magic.”

“Is that what they say?”

“Mmmhmm, and I’m beginning to doubt your sainthood.” 

You relinquish your wand to his open hand. You know the gauntlet’s been flung the moment it hits you square in the face. “That’s your doing. You put me on too high of a pedestal.” 

He’s barely an inch from your face now, his accusations hot underneath the surfaces. 

“March,” he purrs, and you acquiesce. What you do now is not an admission of guilt, rather an adamancy to stand by your decisions. There is a confidence to your swagger that knows no surrender. So much that you defer from looking over your shoulder when you take your first steps. 

Sadly, this aplomb does nothing to keep your trouser legs dry.

 

**iii. autumn**

 

A leaf falls.

 

The mighty alder is down to bare bones, its branches devoid of leaves. They crunch underfoot, and you cut a path through to your door. It’s your first time back at Godric’s Hollow in months. You’re decidedly homesick, or so you tell yourself. But the truth is that you’ve endured all the rows you can handle in one lifetime, even if you’re not directly involved in any of them. Malfoy’s been holed up with Snape for a fortnight, doing whatever it is two swotty gits do to perfect fermentation and flavour. They shout, they insult, and they curse, and yet neither concedes defeat or triumphs over. You start to wonder if this hostile energy isn’t super-kinetic and part of the creative process. 

In any case, you have your own aspects of the business to build and polish, and with any luck, Kreacher will not have neglected to keep the place ordered and tidied. 

You find your home just as you left it, albeit with a stack of squabbling letters, each one demanding your attention with the voice of its sender. With a deft flick of your wrist, you silence the post, intent on an evening of quiet. Even that vase of flowers still sits in the middle of your table, a dozen spider lilies made vibrant and red with freshening spells. A not-so-subtle reminder of your romantic failures.

The electricity of the red also serves to remind you of your meeting with the Consiliul de Vampiri the day after tomorrow. You’re confident you’ve found an untapped (you’ll pardon the pun) market with your world’s dark creatures who relish the vestiges of humanity in a goblet of Pinot Ævil peppered with O negative.

If all goes well, you might even consider a line that caters to the Lycans. A nice, full-bodied Malbec that disguises the harsh taste of the Wolfsbane potion. And then there are the Centaurs and all the other magical populaces Goblin vintners never considered out of exclusivity and prejudice. As silly as it sounds, you hope to improve relations and break down barriers one grape at a time. 

Your favourite armchair provides some much needed solace, but after while you’re missing a certain someone’s annoying face and pointy everything. You wonder how desperate you’ll look after insisting you have your space only to turn around and demand he join you mere hours later. That you’re even entertaining the possibility of separation anxiety makes you choke with laughter. But you and Malfoy have always been two strong constants separated by one stubborn hyphen; Love-Hate, Light-Dark, Red-Green, the list goes on.

In spite of better judgment, you send an owl. You’re not shy about requesting he bring dinner either. Something spicy to accompany your unorthodox ideas, most of which you’ve desecrated a copy of the Quibbler with. 

Malfoy arrives an hour later with take-away and an air of relief. He very obviously has an expiration date when it comes to working so closely with Snape. You’re not the least bit ashamed to admit you know this firsthand.

Yours is also a look of relief. “Good. I’m starving.” 

“Nice to see you too, Potter,” he says. 

You take the first container and wave away the chopsticks. You’d heard they were made from unwilling Bowtruckles first year, and you’ve never been able to shake that feeling. 

Malfoy arches a pale brow. “You do know the main difference between man and beast, yes?”

You’re too busy tucking in for an etiquette lesson. Besides, this is your home. Why can’t you shove noodles in your mouth like a…

“Heathen,” he completes, finishing your sentence. It’s sad, really, how in-sync you two have become. “The answer was that we use eating utensils. In case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” you say. “But thanks just the same.” You summon a fork to placate him, then settle on the couch side-by-side. Malfoy looks pleased he was able to educate you. 

In an annoyingly similar fashion, you tuck into his business like you did your pad thai. “Are you going to tell me why you’re still at each other’s throats? I swear your words were so loud I could practically hear them through the privacy spell.” 

Malfoy’s shoulders sag, and he sighs. “Fine, I’ll tell you. But you’re going to eat every last noodle in that container with chopsticks. You can even have mine.” He grins in satisfaction, and you curse the depths you must go to for curiosity.

You take the chopsticks from him, and they are a struggle to use from the get go. A particularly long noodle evades capture. “Shit. So, you were saying?”

He takes a deep breath. “You know when my father was in Azkaban?”

Malfoy can’t be serious, you think. Not when you were the one that put Lucius there. “Vaguely,” you say.

He looks hesitant to elaborate further, and part of you feels actual pity. This is obviously very painful for him.

You gesture with a chopstick for him to continue, chewing thoughtfully. “Yes?”

Malfoy’s cheeks colour. The suspense is killing you, damn him. You prod his chest with the tip of a chopstick. “Today, please. I’m losing the will to live.”

“My mother… I mean Severus… I mean _they_ …”

You growl, and he startles at your reaction. This only jump starts his temper. “MY MOTHER SLEPT WITH SEVERUS IN HER MARITAL BED!”

At the news, you nearly choke on a noodle. He has to whack you on the back a few times, and you’d swear he’s hitting harder than his normal girly strokes. You have no idea what to say to this, so you say the first thing that comes to your mind. “Congratulations?”

“Fuck you,” he snarls, and he pulls out his wand. “See you back in France.”

You realise sarcasm may not have been the best course in this case, and you hurry over to stop him. “Easy, Malfoy, I was only taking the piss.” You put your hands on him, and for the first time it’s not to hurt him. “I’m sorry. I had no idea this was that distressing.”

There’s a dimness in Malfoy’s grey eyes. Something akin to cloud cover. “I just, you know, expected better of them. It’s why I banished Severus from the manor.”

“They’re human,” you say, and you hope your words will be a comfort to him. At the very least, they speak the truth. 

Apparently, this is all Malfoy needs to hear. He falls into your arms for an embrace, and you stand there, stock-still, until your arms slide around his back. He’s tense in your hold until he’s not anymore. His vulnerability is core-shaking, and you can’t guess as to which one of you shakes more.

Your arms slacken, and he falls away from you. He’s clearly embarrassed at such an emotional display. 

“You’ve been angry over this too long. You should let this go. You can’t undo their choices.”

“I’ve given Severus his access back.”

You lay a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder to let him know his extension of trust was not a solitary act. “Yes, but have you really forgiven him? Or your mother?”

“I will, Harry,” he promises.

Malfoy’s matured a lot since school, you think. He’s broken down the first name barrier and way ahead of you. So much that ‘Malfoy’ and ‘Potter’ feel like two very different people. From an entirely different place and time. A place you hope you never feel cause to revisit.

“Good man, Draco,” you say. He sits back down at your invitation, and you discreetly zero in on your noodles.

With any luck, he’s forgotten about the chopsticks.

*

After dinner, the two of you practise ageing spells on the spider lilies. Draco’s more than a bit anal regarding the fermentation process, and he’s insisted you both have this ageing nonsense down to a science. One flower withers and dies, another is reborn a sprout. Between the two of you, it takes a few hours to find a perfect middle and you commemorate the occasion with a spot of drink. Except that your sideboard is bare save for two leftover bottles of cooking sherry. Luckily, the sherry has been endorsed by chef Wolfbane Puck who sometimes drinks more than he braises.

Pleasantly pissed, you find yourself sleepy, happy, and open to suggestion, not necessarily in that order. Somewhat empowered by the success of your evening at home, Draco offers up your dining room as a sort of sanctuary for wayward epicureans. In other words, he’s adamant you host a dinner party to showcase a bottle of your inaugural… well, whatever pairs best with roast beef. You’re fairly certain it’s a nice red. Cabernet Sauvignon, perhaps. You like that you’re becoming less of a philistine. But mostly, you love that Draco is teaching you.

Ever convincible, you agree to Draco’s suggestion. You’ve left the strenuous details to him. For now, all your addled brain can handle is how you’re going to have to replicate your set of dishes beyond one place setting. 

*

In less than one hour, there will be eight people in your home besides you. You can’t remember a time when you had eight of anything in your midst, not including gnomes and doxies, and those of the many legged variety. And so many different personalities that you’ve come to think of your evening as a mad grab of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. You’re not sure how well candy floss and buttermilk will co-mingle, but you can’t deny that you’re morbidly curious to find out such things.

Of course, Draco’s insisted you wear something other than tatty jeans and trainers. Nevermind you have two wardrobes full of nothing else. But you’re a sport, and you’ve agreed to let him lend you something that isn’t woefully wrinkled or a poly-cotton blend. Instead, he brings you something glaringly green to complement something irritatingly itchy. You won’t mention the cuff links, or the silk tie in which you’d like to strangle him with. Still, you clean up nicely. At least he’s told you as much. 

With less than fifteen minutes to go, you find the nearest mirror and run your fingers through your hair to try and level it some. Despite your desperate attempts at primping, there’s no taming the great beast, and that’s when Draco intervenes.

“You’re slouching,” he says. “Chin up and back straight.”

Your palms are sweaty with nervousness, and you can feel twin beads of perspiration roll down from your hairline. You’re about to have eight guests over for dinner, some of who have hair-trigger tempers. You could give a fuck about your posture. 

“I’m nervous. I just don’t want any hexings.”

Draco sidles up beside you and flattens back a curl, and you suddenly realise that he’s doting on you as a lover would. The idea both frightens and titillates you. 

“Don’t be. If any of my friends forget their manners, I’ll handle it.” 

You wipe your lenses clean of fog and replace them on your face. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

The bell chimes, and Kreacher answers the door. No doubt he likes that you’re keeping company with some pure-bloods. Pansy Parkinson is first to arrive.

“Hello, Draco darling,” she coos. There are the right and left cheek pecks before she turns her sights to you. “Potter, I do hope that we can make a fresh start of things.” She offers her hand in apology, and for the sake of not being the world’s biggest hypocrite you take it.

“Let’s take this one step at a time, yes? You did offer me up to Voldemort in exchange for your safety.”

“A regrettable oversight on my part,” she says as she lets your hand drop. “But don’t think I’m going to bow to you like a first year to a Hippogriff.” She shoulders past you, and you know that you’re in for an interesting evening, to say the least. 

Blaise Zabini arrives next followed by Zacharias Smith. Millicent Bulstrode accompanies Gregory Goyle. Ron and Hermione arrive separately due to work constraints. The first fifteen minutes in the living room are deathly quiet. No introductions are made because war has made an acquaintance of everyone invited. It’s actually quite somber until Ron of all people breaks the ice with rumours of Kingsley Shacklebolt’s early retirement. And then everyone has something to say. Surprisingly, the discussion is heated but not brought to a boil.

Draco calls everyone to order by banging a spoon up against the side of his wine goblet. “If I may have your attention, please.”

The room quiets, and you straighten in your chair. 

“As you all know, I took over my father’s vineyard when he became too ill to do so. I was feeling very overwhelmed with the running of things when I made the decision to solicit a partner. But I knew that Harry…”

Smith interrupts. “On a first name basis I see. ‘Bout time you two lovebirds kissed and made up.”

Hermione glares daggers at Smith. He just smiles back at her like he’s won some juvenile bet. Apparently, Smith has no idea that that glare usually precedes a deadly right hook. He’ll learn soon enough if he pushes, you think. 

“Yeah, Smith,” Ron says. “Shut it. Let Malfoy finish.”

You chuckle. It’s the first time Ron’s managed a sentence about Draco that didn’t contain the words ‘stinky ferret’, ‘pointy git’, or ‘insufferable wanker.’ Relations are vastly improving.

Draco continues. “Thank you, Weasley. As I was saying, I knew that Harry was up for one more impossible task. So, in honour of what I hope is a new start for us both, I bring you the very first bottle of Sauvignon from…” He looks right at you then. _“Two Vines.”_

There is a round of applause as Draco moves around the table to fill all of the wine goblets. 

Hermione clears her throat. “A toast! To Harry!” The voices are few and low, but you never needed a cheering section before. You surely don’t need one now.

She is matched by none other than Pansy. “And to Draco!” A raucous ‘Here, here’ follows. 

You join in the chant, and when Draco retakes his seat, you are the first to clink his glass in congratulations. Nobody could ever accuse you of being anything less than gracious. Hermione and Ron are proud of you. That much is apparent.

Sometime during the meal, when your hands drop down to your serviette, Draco lays his palm across your fingers. You think that perhaps he’s spared you the embarrassment of a full on hand holding, or that the surprise of such an action may show too readily on your face. Something has been brewing between you two for months now, but he’s not ready to show the world and neither are you. You’ll save the queries for after dinner when everyone’s left. When no one’s around to interpret the creases and the laugh lines. But you won’t get the chance tonight.

An arctic fox Patronus shimmers to life just outside your dining room window. The unmistakable voice of Narcissa Malfoy penetrates the panes of glass. The tones are erratic with the highs and lows of a finger navigating the rim of a crystal goblet.

_‘Come home, Draco. Your father is fading. Come home.’_

The Patronus vanishes from sight, and Draco scurries from his seat, jarring his glass of wine. It spills and stains the tablecloth a deep crimson, like fresh blood on snow.

This is not an omen, you think. Just ill tidings.

But Draco is gone before you can find your words.

 

**iv. winter**

 

A snowflake falls. 

 

Lucius Malfoy passes five days before Christmas. 

It’s bitterly cold in Wiltshire, even from underneath an Invisibility Cloak. There are very few friends and relatives in attendance, so you have a clear view of the mausoleum. Cold stone interring an even colder man. On a different day you might’ve been here out spite, but now you’re here out of… you don’t know exactly. Draco’s never expected sympathy. Though, a part of you wishes you had it to give.

When what little of the attendees have left, you make your own preparations to leave. This, however, does not include fumbling your wand. Before you can snatch it up, a foot catches the corner of your Cloak and traps it, leaving you vulnerable. You look sheepishly at your captor when he returns your wand.

“Here for the petit fours, are you?” he says.

You offer up a smile in thanks. “I’ve heard the company isn’t bad either.”

Draco throws his arms around you. After a moment, your arms close around him. You’re not going to punctuate the silence with an apology you don’t mean. You’re not going to try and comfort Draco with niceties about his father or reassurances about his parenting. You’ve never assigned any feelings other than loathing for Lucius Malfoy. Draco must sense this in the rigidity of your muscles. 

He sighs against your shoulder. “It’s all right, Harry. I’m just glad you’re here.”

“So am I,” you say. This time, your words have found you.

*

Refuge is found in the manor library.

Narcissa is quite capable of handling family affairs. And what hospitality she can’t offer her sister provides. This absolves Draco of any responsibility. He’s free to share his grief with you and you alone. A mother truly understands.

Draco pours himself a Firewhisky. He offers you the decanter, but you decline a drink. “We should discuss our debut at the upcoming Frost Fair.”

“Or, we might talk about other things,” you say.

He swirls the amber liquid around in his glass before downing it in one gulp. “I’d rather talk business.”

You feel a sympathy pain at the burn of it. Blishen’s was made for fire-eaters and masochists. You silently cue masochism. “Are you just going to sit here and pretend you didn’t attend your father’s funeral? At the very least, we should enjoy the silence. Together or something.” 

“Together or something,” he repeats with a laugh. He smiles, but there is both tension and pain in the way his mouth curls around the words. He refills his glass.

“Is that why you’re glad I’m here?” You pull the glass from his unwilling fingers. “Because it saves you the time and trouble of coming to me later?”

His mouth falls open, but before he can answer you, there is an interruption at the door. Andromeda comes with an announcement. “Draco, Ms Parkinson is here to see you. Shall I have her come back?”

Glad for the easy escape, Draco is quick to accept the visitation. “No, tell her I’ll be along shortly. Wait here,” he tells you.

Andromeda offers you a hearty smile before a look of apology. She closes the door behind Draco. It seems you have been relegated to solitude.

Your decision to remain, however, changes after the first four glasses of Firewhisky. Score another point for masochism, you think. After a near-blinding ordeal in a room furnished entirely in white, and a near-death experience in the armoury, you finally track Draco and Parkinson to the music room. You linger beside the open door just out of view. There is no shimmer of magic guarding the entranceway. Their words are there for the taking. 

“It’s insane I know, but I think I like him, Pans,” Draco says.

At this confession you gasp. It’s neither a good gasp nor a bad gasp. At this point, it’s too early to tell. 

Pansy slips a cigarette between painted lips and lights up. “Let’s pretend for a moment you’re not delirious with fever. What makes you think Potter feels similarly?”

Draco scrunches his nose at the smell of wormwood. “Why not? He could do a lot worse. Must you?” he says, indicating her cigarette with a dramatic wave of his hand.

While she sits calmly, Draco seems intent on pacing like a caged tiger. That he fancies you, apparently, produces fidgety results.

“For this conversation, I must. Have you considered the consequences?” 

He stops at the harp, enchanted into silence many years hence. “He’s my business partner. It’s not really a stretch.”

Pansy hmms at this. “Does he even like cock?”

“Merlin, you’re blunt.” 

“I have to be, you know.” She smiles wickedly from behind a veil of green smoke. “Otherwise, it might’ve taken Zacharias a year to find my clit.”

Unsurprisingly, you blanch at the thought of Pansy Parkinson flaunting her sexuality. To say nothing of that utter tosspot Smith with his dick out.

Draco doesn’t seem the least bit bothered at the mention of such a heinous coupling. “That’s because I drew him a map.”

This elicits a quiet snort of laughter from you. 

Pansy stubs out her cigarette. “Look Draco, if you want to traverse this road with Potter, you should. I’m not sure I approve, but it’s not my decision. Just don’t let him exploit your weakness.”

“And what weakness would this be?”

She doesn’t answer him, instead heading for the door.

You panic at the thought of being caught listening and make a break for the first unlocked door. As luck, or rather unluck would have it, you choose the one room which Snape’s portrait currently occupies. 

He sneers, and you smile. For the small price of your silence over his indiscretion, Snape discloses the way safely back.

*

Christmas Eve is all about you. It’s you in pyjama bottoms and a tatty t-shirt. It’s you with a six pack of butterbeer and a container of Fortescue’s. And it’s you with a few extravagances you bought on your own Sickle. Holiday porn aside, your right hand has been looking forward to what your left brain has been opposing all day. 

You start your day early at the vineyard. The bonuses are distributed. The climatisation spells are reapplied. And your Elves have been given a week’s leave to do whatever it is Elves do at Christmas. You’re nearly there, almost at the finishing point, when you remember you have one last task to accomplish before you reset the wards. In an oaken barrel, you’ve been ageing a Syrah non-magically. It’s your hope that in ten years you can market this as an anniversary edition, with the first bottle of Love-Hate as your thanks to Draco. With any luck, this won’t ferment into a cask of vinegar. 

It’s about quarter of twelve when you finish, and you reluctantly admit you’re knackered. You’re going to go home and have the longest sleep forty winks can provide. And then you’re going to spend all evening into morning sugared up, sex-mussed, and blissed out. These are your plans, but you should know by now that your life never goes according to anything but chaos. Not a moment after you close your front gate, an owl clips you on the back of your head with its beak. Even Draco’s bird is cheeky, you huff. 

It’s an invitation, of course, to an evening of Malfoy frivolity. Draco has somehow convinced his mother and aunt to spend a week in Peloponnese, but even you know that the old-moneyed pure-blooded families prefer Tuscany or Cannes for periods of proper mourning. This is an attempt at subterfuge if ever you saw one. You scribble a note of apology on the back of his invitation and send it with the snow owl. 

But when does Draco ever take ‘no’ for an answer? 

Four hours later you find yourself back at the manor. You were going to return his clothes to him anyway. Except that you’re wearing them for a second time, because his sense of decorum strictly forbids pyjama bottoms and a tatty t-shirt.

Dinner consists of pheasant, or possibly the owl who delivered your invitation. You’re not exactly a fan of wild game. You’re a meat and two veg sort of bloke, but Draco is helping you learn to appreciate all aspects of cuisine. It’s probably why you’ve offered to taste first and enquire later. You’re fairly certain it’s the only way you’d agree to a side of larks tongues in aspic. And, of course, you silently bless the familiarity of roast potatoes and carrots and parsnips. Such foods are useful to combat the aftertaste of speech organs. 

You and Draco take your plum pudding with brandy butter in front of the fire. In the corner of the room sits an intimidating tree luminous with fairy lights. Underneath the tree is nestled a solitary gift box dressed in the prettiest paper. And don’t you feel like a giant arse. It’d totally slipped your mind to buy Draco a Christmas present. To make matters worse, he deposits it into your lap with a beguiling look.

Right about now you’re wishing this stupid couch would swallow you whole.

You trip over your own words like the clumsy berk that you are. “I er… I didn’t get you anything, Draco.”

“Shut up and open your gift.”

You pull the tail of the bow until it gives, loosening the box top. Once the contents are made accessible, you push aside the tissue paper to find a small note inside folded over once. You thumb it open and read.

_Kiss me, you idiot._

You’re still holding his note when you lean over to kiss him. 

His lips are much softer than you imagine. Your hands reach up to stroke his cheeks, the planes of his face angular, the contour of his jawline sharp.

The kiss deepens, and your eyes close, the will of your body’s demand. You pull Draco into your lap, unwilling to suffer the threat of lost contact.

He fumbles at your belt buckle, and you mimic this action with equal fervour. His cock is heavy in your palm, the skin just as heated as it slides though a tight tunnel of fingers. 

Draco takes your cock in his grasp and strokes the base of the crown with his thumb. A soft cry eludes your control. You need more contact, more friction, more roughness.

His draw becomes your mantra, and you need him, you need him, you need him. 

Your hands fall to your sides when he shifts his weight in your lap, arching his back, his spine a length of malleable steel.

To stay the forward motion of his body, you undo the buttons of his shirt. It falls open, revealing the remnants of light pink scars. The flesh there is slightly raised, and you trace the crisscrosses in both deepest regret and fondest admiration. At the weight of your fingertips, he grinds his cock hard against yours.

You’re not going to last long, desire coiling deep and dark in the pit of your stomach. The press of your bodies becomes too great, and you come as he coaxes the strength from your muscles. Your vision blackens about the edges, and you push him away before he can thieve any more from you.

You finish him by hand in three languid strokes. He pants in harsh, jagged breaths as he comes, painting the length of his belly with thick, erratic stripes.

Draco just looks up at you from his easy sprawl on the majority of the couch cushions. His cock is still hard, bent slightly at the tip. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he was quite fond of fucking around corners. You’re not ashamed to admit this bend pleases you.

“You pushed me away,” he says, his fingers spider-crawling a path up your thigh to your cock. 

You pick his hand up and deposit it elsewhere. “What of it?” You’re rubbish at keeping a straight face when you’re pleasantly sated, so the effect is mostly in vain. 

Neither of you moves for an hour, limbs leaden and senses overstimulated by the constant blink of fairy lights. Out of sheer boredom and a lack of real motion, Draco animates a plate of gingerbread men.

“Are we going to talk about this?” you ask. This being _this_.

The gingerbread men run helter-skelter all around you.

“Not now.” For a moment you think this might’ve been a grave lapse in judgment. That is, until he lays a hand on your hip. “But soon,” he reassures. 

You take his words at face value, and in the spirit of holiday indulgence, you bite the head off of a passing gingerbread man.

Draco gently squeezes your hip. “Happy Christmas, Harry.”

“Happy Christmas, Draco,” you say around a mouthful of biscuit.

*

There hasn’t been a Frost Fair on the river Thames since the year eighteen hundred fourteen. However, with a spike of January cold and the supernatural wherewithal, this is easily remedied for wizardkind. Muggles may come and go, but they see nothing of the Unplottable fest near the Blackfriars Bridge. Part of magic’s charm, you’ve come to discover, is that it can occur out in the open. 

As many as a hundred attractions have been listed on the brochure. There are merchants and craftsmen. A Gubraithian fire-eater. Seers and others of their ilk. Food and beverage vendors. Musicians and noteworthy personalities. There is even a wall of remembrance in which to mark the occasion with an icy signature. Indeed, magical folk from all walks of life have come to share in the spirit of fun and seasonal frolics. 

Your booth is somehow situated next to that of Stubby Boardman’s, a favourite of conspirators, who became a meadsman shortly after retirement from the Hobgoblins. This is going to be an interesting stretch of days, you think, setting up shop. But with Draco’s help, you’re going to promote _Two Vines_ with tastings and a show of solidarity between former foes. 

All of your friends come to show their support, though you suspect Ron’s here just as equally for Galvin Gudgeon’s autograph. The person you’re most glad to see, though, is Ginny. She’s with Dean, and she looks just as happy with him as you could be with Draco. She gives you the warmest hug, and you’re fighting the urge to let go. The twinge in your heart is very real, a painful reminder that mind and body sometimes traverse separate paths. She’s not the right fit, you know, but that doesn’t mean you will ever stop loving her. There is room enough in your heart for all types of love. 

Narcissa stops by when Draco’s on an errand, and you dread the thought of entertaining her until his return. You’ve never had more than a handful of short conversations with her, and you accept that there’s been no forgiveness at the incarceration of her husband. Still, you think you’ve done right by her son. That should count for something.

“Draco’s not here,” you say. “He’s on an errand, but he should be back shortly.” 

She looks at you with all the grace of a Black and all the strength of a fierce mother. “I didn’t come to see Draco.” 

You arch an eyebrow in confusion. You can’t imagine why she’s come to see you. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

She lays a hand on your shoulder, and you pray that she doesn’t hex your balls off. “Mr Potter, no man is ever good enough for your son until one comes along that is. I only ask that if relations between you cease, you leave him in a better state than which you found him. My son still hurts.”

You smile, and you hope that the warmth behind it is contagious. “I will be good to him.”

She kisses your cheek. “I know that you will be.”

You couldn’t ask for a better blessing. Smiling, she departs with her usual regality.

*

When Draco returns, it’s actually much later than either of you anticipates. You’ve nearly finished packing up when he graces you with his presence.

“All right then?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I finally caught up with my mother. We had a very interesting conversation about you over tea and shortbread.”

“I can’t imagine what about,” you lie.

“She seems to think you might be good for me, but then I politely reminded her that she told me the same thing about peas once.”

You give him a questioning look. “Your point being?”

“The intimidating texture. The strange aftertaste.”

“You’re not making much sense, Draco.”

He toes at a stray chip of ice. “You pushed me away that night.”

You sigh, admitting defeat. “I was feeling plenty vulnerable. It’s just a kneejerk reaction to…”

“Nakedness with your former nemesis?” he asks, grinning.

“No, intimacy, you great berk.” 

He throws an arm about your shoulder. “Then it’s not just me?”

“Of course not. I know I panicked that night, but I think I’d like to give this the chance it deserves.”

The thought gives him pause. “I know we’d make great lovers. But I don’t know that we’d make good friends.”

“I beg to differ. We’ve come far enough.” And then it dawns on you, what Pansy Parkinson implied about Draco the day you eavesdropped on their conversation.

While you very much want to be loved, he just wants to be needed. And you do need him. 

“This saint-in-training needs you.”

“You’re mighty confident, I see.”

You point out the frozen river beneath your trainers. “I’m walking on water, aren’t I?”

“Cheeky, Potter, very cheeky,” he laughs.

You hold out your hand for him. After a moment, he takes it, lacing your fingers.

This is going to be a day of impossible feats done. It’s the start of what’s looking to be a very good year. 

A very good year, indeed.

 

**v. epilogue**

 

A tear falls.

 

“I can’t believe it’s been ten years,” you say.

“And you started this when?” He looks rather impressed with your ingenuity, to say nothing of your dogged secrecy.

“The Christmas just after your father passed.”

Draco kisses the bottle in salute. “Happy Anniversary, Harry.”

And then he kisses you sweetly in thanks.

“Happy Anniversary, Draco.”

You wipe away the tear.

The seasons begin anew.

**~The End~**

**Author's Note:**

> You can leave a comment here or [on Livejournal.](http://hd-erised.livejournal.com/16269.html)


End file.
